Midnight Illusion
by Distopia
Summary: What she wanted was to need, and be needed. She didn’t want to always be the one that did the healing… ONESHOT


**Series: **Beyblade

**Genre: **Angst/Drama

**Author: **Aethyrial Flame

**Summary: **What she wanted was to need, and be needed. She didn't want to always be the one that did the healing… ONE-SHOT

Disclaimer: I don't own Beyblade. Or the two characters I pinched, either.

Just something that I came up with when bored, with nothing on the television, and my sister had the german/measles. It kept me up till the early hours of the AM finishing it, but what good story isn't caused buy lack of sleep? Anyway, I wanted to write something more about beyblade, but with actually _canon_ characters, as I seemed to be having a hard time with that… Well, as it's fairly obvious, I shan't say _who_ I chose, but merely why.

There are few female characters in the story, and, quite obviously, she is one of the main romantic interests for any of the boys. And how frustrating must her life be? Forever consigned to the sidelines- where she can't help her friends, only watch and hope that they'll pull through in one piece.

And of him? Well, he's such a dark, tormented character that I couldn't help but want to play with him. In the dark of night when the shadows seems to pull you down, the comfort of another person helps greatly, and romantic fiction is _littered_ with couples coming together because of mutual need. And the teenage years are plagued with adolescents who think that they can find love through sex.

So, this is my interpretation of all of those things- _Beyblade_ style.

Enjoy.

((EDIT as of 7/2/06: minor grammar and spelling changes, should be much better now.))

* * *

Midnight Illusion

"_If you want to, _

_I can save you, and_

_I can take you away from here._

_So lonely inside,_

_So busy out there_

_And all you _wanted _was somebody who cared. _"

**Michelle Branch- All You Wanted**

In the dark of night, it was the hot, aching glide of lips and tongue that brought her from the realms of sleep.

For a moment, her mind hovered between sharp eyed clarity and instant comprehension of the situation, and the puzzled bewilderment of one newly awoken. As always, she settled for a lethargic acceptance, arms twining around the neck of the one hovering above her.

Softly needing, silently desperate, teeth nibbled and tugged at her lower lip, hands freely gliding over her body, hidden as it was beneath thick blankets. Mind rapidly clearing at the heated press of his lips against hers, she sat up, noting how he stayed in constant contact with her throughout the motion.

Gently, she smoothed her hands down and over bare shoulders, across a muscled torso, and to the softness of the cotton pants that he wore. Distracted slightly, he shifted, the movement tugging on the blankets pooling at her waist. The invitation in her gaze quickened his breath, and he needed no urge to slip beneath them with her.

Eager hands swiftly divested the two of their clothing, and it wasn't long until the chill of the room had her skin and breasts pebbling in response. Attentive to her needs as always, he warmed her body with her own, the friction of skin on skin turning her hiss of complaint to a husky moan.

Slowly, carefully, as though new to it, they explored one another, delighting in the gasp and groans, the soft, whispery breaths, and the harsh pants of want.

The darkness obscured the hard lines of his face and softened them; the moonlight flashed across the planes of her high cheekbones, hardening the soft lines of her face. Sweat slicked bodies slipped and slid against one another in a rhythm as old as time itself, the movement's mimicked buy seeking tongues.

Eyes flashing darkly with desire, she pinned her gaze to a point on the ceiling as she felt him move within her, body a predatory mix of fading shadows and light. Her soft cries and his muted grunts were easily masked buy teeth set to flesh and tongues winding around one another, as always.

Short, curling strands tossed across her pillow, the rich chocolate hue darkened to an almost black in his shadow. Head tossed back in wild abandon, she writhed against him, the heat of the fire coiling through her exceeding that of the flushed flesh pressed so intimately against her own. Surging and bucking, it roared to its peak like a coiling whiplash of fire, before it struck her down, hyper sensitizing each and every nerve end.

Cry muffled buy his mouth as his was buy her own, she stiffened and arched against him, fingers curling and winding in the icy locks, gaze latched onto the ceiling, as his was to the bed head. His own release followed quickly afterward, and for many moments afterward, they could only lay entwined, bodies dropping swiftly in a sated state of exhaustion.

The chill of the late night air had little effect on the two as they calmed racing hearts and breaths with practiced ease, before slowly disentangling themselves. Moving, stretching, to the accompanying sounds of rustling bed sheets, they rose and dressed once more.

Not once did they look at one another, as always, nor did they touch once more, as always. Silently, he padded from her room without a backward glance, and without a glance towards the shutting doorway, she headed for the bathroom attached to her own.

Methodically, she pulled out a fresh set of night clothes, her towels, and turned the shower on so that it might warm. Ruby gaze distant, she plucked her hair brush from the counter, slowly running it through the thick, mahogany hued strands. Her body still vibrated with the pleasant tingles of the aftermath, but, accustomed to them, she was able to distance her mind from the sensations.

Once the water was warmed to a satisfying temperature, she slid the door to the shower open, stepped inside, and began to cleanse herself. It was as much a nightly ritual for her as her meetings with _him_ where; if it was not the smoky, musky scent of sex that she washed from her skin, then it was the acid, consuming stench of terror.

'_At least,'_ she thought with a sigh, as she frothed the fruit-smelling body wash between her palms, '_I won't dream.'_ She never did, after his visits; she didn't know the how or why, but, in a way, she _was_ grateful for it.

Grateful not to have to watch with sickening, crystal clear clarity, the light dulling from a previously sharp, intense gaze, nor listen to the maniacal laughter of the victor that rang in the open space. Carefully, she ran her sudsy hands over her body, brow puckering in a frown as a low, dark jolt shot down her spine. Turning beneath the stream of hot water, she endeavoured to ignore it, as always.

And as always, her mind turned to _why_ she allowed this to continue. It wasn't as if the act itself wasn't pleasurable; he mother had taken her to a 'professional' when she came of age, not wanting her daughter's first experience to be of fumbling hands and hot, panted breaths.

Her introduction had been slow- awkward on her part, and bemused on his. But it hadn't lasted beyond the first four or five sessions, as achieving her own carnal knowledge in such a way left her feeling dirty, and used. The knowledge had been nice, and spun a new turn on her perspective of life, but sometimes, she'd often mused, it had some definitive negative connotations.

Once innocent, she was now tarnished; her sweet, naïve dreams of professions of love, sparks of passion, and an enthralling _rightness_ where very, very wrong... And mentioned nothing of the smooth, experienced glide of teeth and tongues and knowing hands, and the slow burning passion of lust. She was an adult, now, she knew, but it only made her longing for her childhood that much more acute.

Especially because of her new 'awareness'. Though it had never crossed her mind before- not with the easy camaraderie of several years beneath her belt- it now traced across it with increasing frequency. She became acutely aware of the fact that the boys that she travelled with had _incredibly_ good physiques for her age- after all, the lamentations of her _girl_ friends had informed her quite thoroughly of the average teenage male.

Her plight wasn't made any easier buy the fact that they swaggered around without a care with no shirts on, didn't seem to care if she walked in on them half naked, and happily invited her to watch them train. The close companionship that she shared with them had led them to view her more as an _attachment_ of themselves, and, thusly, not _female_.

Oh, they remembered sometimes, and always flushed and blushed and stammered cutely, before hurrying off in all their awkward naivety. Such times made her sharply aware of her own age and maturity, and the pill was a bitter one to swallow.

She envied the boys, with their safe bastion of innocence. They wouldn't remain innocent for long, she knew- even now, they flirted and joked, smiled and slanted long glances at the girls that threw themselves at the team. And if their ego's got to be a little more than she wanted to deal with, well, then she was obliged to take them down a few pegs.

Each boy charmed her in a different way; with suave, soft spoken maturity, bright, sparking happiness offset buy hidden pain, brash ignorance cloaking a keen wit, and shy genius. But one… one _enchanted her_. He was a mystery, and it was as much a part of his allure as the dark, troubled past, and heavy cloak of memories that seemed to be a visible weight upon his broad shoulders.

Of them all, he was the one her heart cried out to. She had always been the mothering sort, bringing home wounded animals, and bossily fussing over her younger friends and relatives. And the boys cried out to her in so many different ways that she couldn't _help_ but want to help them. So what if she had a little bit of trouble expressing herself?

It was the intent that mattered.

So what if she had the habit of making sharp, cutting remarks without thinking when she was in a temper? So what if _her_ brand of mothering was the bossy, fussing type?

She had only ever wanted to help…

The never seemed to visibly notice that, however. Oh, she knew that they did- it was expressed in a dozen, varied ways, from how they acted around her, to the small, incredibly sweet things that they did. But boys will be boys, and no matter how much she loved each and every one of them, they just didn't _notice_ anything.

Emotional perception and awareness of her surroundings was as much a part of her character as it was instinctively woven into her very genes. The boys, however, never picked up on her subtle clues, never noticed that she just wanted to _vent_.

No, if she wanted to get something through to them, she had to beat them over the _head_ with it. And if she wanted to vent, they tried to _help_ her. Which was all well and good, but when she was in a spitting rage, she didn't want to hear possible solutions for whatever had enraged her, she wanted to it all _off_ of her chest.

But despite all of that- all of the inconveniences of being a side lines cheerleader, of always standing away and never being able to help, of always hiding her hurts and shouldering theirs, of moving around and missing her friends and family…

She couldn't give it up.

'_No_,' She mused, warming her chilled shoulders, as the last of the soap bubbles slid from her body in a cascade of heated water, '_I'd never take back a single second.'_ Everything, the hurting, the pain, the loss; it was all worth it, in the end.

To be able to watch them fixate on those spinning tops, the auras of their sacred spirits surrounding them, hearts and minds invested in the out come of a game that rarely lasted beyond a minute… Somehow, seeing that which she did not have made her feel a little better.

Though it was a game that all of the world seemed to know and play, it had never appealed to her. She just couldn't fold her mind around the idea of how a _spinning_ top could condense itself into so many liquefied emotions. It had been a child's game to her; a bunch of toys for little boys to play with.

Being up close and personal with said 'game', however, had taught her a few things. Like how easy it was for a spinning piece of plastic and metal to be turned into a lethal weapon, a tool for both war and play. Or how deeply the game sunk its claws into you, as it lead them towards several catastrophic, heart wrenching battles.

From the sidelines, she'd watched them win and lose, watched their heartbreak as their sacred spirits- so close to them that they might have well have been _themselves­_- where stolen, taken from them because of a greedy, power hungry soul.

Throughout it all, she'd weathered the tears and anger, the broken, despondent screams of incoherent grief, and the fevered, desperate training. She'd watched as they worked themselves to exhaustion to get a little faster, a little stronger, to knock over _one_ more obstacle…

And, down through the years, another had watched beside her. The stark loneliness that he emulated cajoled and pleaded with her maternal instincts, urging her to simply fold him into her embrace, protecting him for the darkness of his past.

She never had, though; had seen him lash out at others for the pity that they showed him, watched as his burning gaze, so much more _intense_ than her own, struck down helping hands with contemptuous ease. And she'd watched as he'd kept himself aloft and aloof from all others, secure in his fortress of ice.

Few had made it past his iron clad defences; as far as she knew, he had only ever allowed the boys of the team close, but none more so than the one that she _never_ would have pegged as having broken through to him.

Perhaps it should have been the smooth, suave one, with the jagged past of hardships, the one who was calm and serene, a sturdy anchor against the lashing, howling winds. Or maybe the bright, happy one, who cloaked himself so blindingly that you dismissed the shadowed pain in his effervescent gaze as a flight of fancy.

Why him, though?

He, with his dark brandy gaze, so passionate and fervent, tousled locks and earnest, open face. He, with his brash, outspoken words, and highly visible emotions. Dark gaze intense, he'd stare down anyone that stood in his way, tall, gangly form immovable as he stood by his convictions.

She envied that; how he rarely, if ever, seemed to be plagued buy doubts. But when he did, it was not a small thing; he never did things buy halves. When he fell, it was from a great height, buoyed as it was buy the support of his friends.

And, perhaps, envy was a great part of it. She envied the boys for so many things, but greatest amongst them was _him_, and his control.

Rough against her flesh, the terry cloth towel dragged at her skin as she rubbed it briskly, scouring every patch of moisture from its soft, pale honey glow. At length, she slowed, muscles protesting the hurried movements, and allowed the length of fabric to slide to the floor.

Eyelids drooping, mind slogging through the thick, miring flood of memory, she trudged to the vanity cupboard, listlessly reaching for her clothes. Mechanically, gaze shuttered and mind far away, she drew them upon her, thoughts churning slowly.

How could he have such perfect control, she wondered, pausing to enjoy the contrast between heated flesh and cool, silky blankets. Face flushing, she wrenched herself away from the taunting, flashing memories of nibbling teeth and searching tongue, nimble fingers caressing her with practiced ease…

Nothing ever seemed to bother him; stoic, untouchable, he coolly dismissed any an all emotions. But his eyes… his eyes, they gave the lie away. They could burn as hot as the fire from which his spirit was spawned, or as cold and chilling as artic ice, dark maroon glaciers as sharp as glass.

Rarely, if ever, had she seen the soft, terra cotta tones of his happiness; it happened only when he thought that no one was watching, or when his barriers where down, as they often where around the _boys_.

He was still wary around _her_, though, and she wasn't sure to be flattered or insulted. Unlike her clueless companions, he was courteous when needed, and silently appreciative when he felt like complimenting her.

Oh, she received compliments- mostly from strangers, or opponents of the team- sometimes from flashing amber eyes and dark, spiky raven locks. At others, playful, flirtatious jokes from a deep, oceanic gaze, and silky blonde locks. But such events where rare, and, despite her carnal knowledge, made her insecure about her femininity.

Which was, she thought with a sigh as she rolled over, punching her pillow in a futile effort to make it more accommodating, perhaps the _biggest_ reason as to why she didn't stop her midnight encounters.

Because it was nice to think, if even for a little while, that she was attractive enough to warrant that kind of interest. It was _flattering_ to think that, out of _all_ the women that he had chosen, her came to _her_ bed when the darkness became to intense, when he couldn't bear the pain any longer…

And it would be _oh_ so easy to belittle herself with thoughts of convenience, of ease of emotional detachment, of all the nasty, self-doubting tortures; but she didn't succumb to them.

No, because they came together for _very_ different reasons. Her life, as it was, provoked profound feelings of sorrow and bittersweet happiness. The boys didn't _really_ need her; she was just the cheerleader, the understanding friend, the shoulder to cry on.

It hurt to think of how little she truly meant when you added things up. She couldn't fight like they could, couldn't protect herself, and her cooking was average, not disastrous, nor delightful.

Her interests lay in the spiritual and esoteric, and in things that made her feel like what she was- a _woman_. And what could be more feminine than having sex? After all, thousands of women had it everyday, and, as her romantic interests stood, she seriously doubted if such an intimate - such an inappropriate word- relationship would have ever occurred any other way.

They boys didn't want her to mother them, didn't want or need her help. She was nothing more than a friend, and that, perhaps, was what hurt the most.

But with him… with him, she was needed. Because for a brief few moments, they could both forget the darkness that haunted their minds, could lose themselves in the wet, aching glide of lips and tongue, of the sparking friction of sweat slicked flesh rubbing against itself, and of the dark fires of lust.

In the darkest hours of night she could, for a little while, lie to herself and pretend that she was needed. She could say that he took _refuge_ in her arms, sought her out for _comfort_. He wasn't seeking to slate his lust, which would be so easy to do otherwise; no, he wanted to be with another person- wanted to escape his nightmares.

And that, perhaps, was the only thing that they had in common. She hated them; hated watching her memories, hated the vulnerability she felt as she watched her closest friends be brought to heir knees over a game, whilst she stood on the sidelines, shackled and helpless…

She could still remember waking up in the middle of the night once more, heart pounding, ruby orbs almost swallowed buy her pupils, terror stricken and weeping silently with the force of her emotions. The bleeding, broken bodies of her loved ones where still so clear in her mind; and when a large, warm body had seated itself beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, she'd gladly attached herself to it.

During the daytime, they acted as if nothing happened. But buy night, they slowly moved closer and closer. It went slowly; he'd just _appear_ in her room when she woke from a nightmare, and sit there, gazing out of the window. And as the weeks passed, with her making no mention of their midnight encounters, he became bolder.

Instead of waking to the feel of his gaze, she woke to the heavy, reassuring weight of his body in the bed beside her. From there, it had progressed in little stages; him playing with her clothes, toying with her hair, mapping her face out buy touch.

When she thought about it, it hadn't been all that big a step from cautious, tender touching, to deeper explorations. Slowly, they began shedding their clothes, until one night, she woke to find herself naked and him the cause of the spiralling heat pooling in her belly.

The agreement between them was a silent, unspoken thing; both knew that they where using one another, but neither cared. They had sex, dressed, and left one another- nothing more than that. It could never _be _more than that; they where too different.

He was the cold, harsh loner, the one always watching silently from the sidelines. She was the lost and lonely cheer leader, who stood buy her friends in the hope that, somehow, it would help where she could not.

Drawn together through the pain in their minds, it was their bodies that briefly alleviated it. And her emotions, fickle things that they where, where fiercely buried, as, internally, she mimicked the cool façade of the one that had caught her interest so strongly.

Everything about him provoked the need to _help_, and yet, at the same time, made her feel so vulnerable, the tables turned so swiftly. His stark, assessing gaze seemed to see through her facades and to her heart and soul, something that no one had been able to do before.

The dangerous line that she trod thrilled her more than she cared to admit. Outwardly, she was a _good_ girl. She did her work, had achieved top marks in class, and badgered her friends to do the same. She made sure that they dressed well, ate well, and acted well.

And she was _always_ responsible. It was like a physical thing, her responsibility; it dragged her down like a penitential stone.

She was to be good for her parents, and look after herself. She was to be a _good_ girl, and look after her friends. Her role was that of a side one; she did not deserve the lime light, for she was the one who held it, so it beamed down upon those seeking its flame.

Inwardly, however, she revelled in the dark thoughts that crossed her mind, and she enjoyed the long hours of midnight. Within her mind, she freely admitted her jealousies and insecurities, and the horrible, _nasty_ thoughts that would shock anyone should she voice them. Sometimes she resented how easy it was for her to be happy, to shout and be angry, to be so _unable_ to express herself freely…

Sighing deeply, she rolled onto her side, eyes slipping closed, smarting slightly from the glare of moonlight that pooled through her window.

As always, she would simply live her life one day till the next, one nightmare till another, and one midnight illusion till the truth.


End file.
